


muscle memory

by spacestationtrustfund



Series: kiss kiss bang bang [2]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 05:19:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5404499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacestationtrustfund/pseuds/spacestationtrustfund
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How did you train something rooted so deep out of you? (A study in addiction, discipline, and gasoline.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	muscle memory

Despite all of Gansey’s insistences that that he despised Kavinsky’s frequent comments about Ronan being Gansey’s dog, Ronan felt remarkably like Gansey had fastened a leash around his neck and pulled it tight. Gansey would have denied it, of course, but Ronan couldn’t miss nor overlook the surreptitious glances, the excuses to go places together, the refusals to allow him to drive anywhere on his own. Ronan would not have been surprised if he found that Gansey had installed some sort of tracking device on him.

If Gansey was trying to be subtle, he was failing horribly. Kavinsky would laugh and say something about _keeping an eye on the bae,_ and Ronan would flip him off and say something about _being a fucking asshole,_ and Kavinsky would say _that’s harsh, man,_ and it would all go downhill from there.

But Kavinsky was not a part of Ronan’s time at Monmouth, no matter how many clever forgeries he left there on the doorstep. Kavinsky was not a part of Ronan’s time at Aglionby, no matter how many times he called out to Ronan in the corridors or while crossing the courtyards. Kavinsky was for dark nights and empty streets and fast cars and—

And Gansey was saying something, and Ronan was supposed to be listening. Adam was listening, of course; it wasn’t as if Ronan really needed to be paying attention for Gansey’s sake. But he focused his attention on Gansey, anyway.

“—are all horrible,” Gansey was saying. He tapped his thumb against his lower lip, that stupid Gansey-ish habit that made him human even when everything else about him screamed _king._ “I don’t recall being that snobbish when _I_ got into Aglionby.”

He was doing that thing where he somehow managed to sound disgustingly condescending while meaning to sound sincerely sympathetic.

“You can’t really blame them, I guess,” said Adam with a shrug, obviously blaming whomever _them_ were and probably having reason to do so. “They’re rich as shit, and Aglionby is a very competitive school. It makes some sense.”

“Perhaps. I suppose I just resent that they don’t fully comprehend the magnitude of the opportunity,” Gansey said dubiously. “It baffles me. Ronan, what do you think about it?”

“He hasn’t been listening,” Adam said, before Ronan could even open his mouth.

“Shut it, Parrish.”

“We were just discussing the new students,” Gansey explained, with a vague gesture at a small crowd of boys in the stereotypically-neat Aglionby sweaters and immaculately-pressed khakis. “Do they or do they not seem more snobbish to you this year?”

“They’re all snobby little fuckers. I can’t tell the difference between one of those short little bastards and another,” Ronan said. “They all look the same to me.”

Adam said wryly, “And I suppose only you have any sense of personality?”

“ _Shut it,_ Parrish.”

“Adam is just as much a part of this conversation as you are,” Gansey said, the mother scolding her children after a particularly nasty fight. “Is there any specific reason that you’re in a pissed-off mood today, or is it just life in general? Because _that_ I could understand.”

The night before, Kavinsky had texted Ronan: _see you @11 if youre not 2 scared._ Ronan had itched to reply, to take the keys to the BMW and go, but Gansey had been awake and Ronan had known better than to sneak out. Kavinsky’s knowing smirk the next day at school had been worse than the pain of losing would have been. His smugness was a lit match, chasing the dry kindling of Ronan’s bones.

Ronan said, “The freshies are all fucking snobs.”

“Do you mean that they’re snobs, or that they’re sleeping with snobs?”

“In a picky mood today, Parrish? Jealous?”

“Ronan,” Gansey said, “Lynch.”

Kavinsky had been waiting in the halls when Ronan had slammed his locker shut. _I understand that you’re desperate,_ he’d said, _but was staying in to fuck your boyfriend really a better idea than showing up?_ It had taken every bit of Ronan’s control not to slam Kavinsky back against the wall and—

Gansey said, “I swear, they get shorter every year. Freshmen. What a world they’re in. Well, lunch is almost over. Should we go in?”

“Probably,” Adam said, shooting Ronan a glance as he stood up. They had been sitting outside on one of the plaque-adorned picnic tables that were there more for the image than for any real practicality. “Hey, Ronan. You coming with?”

“Yeah,” Ronan said, succinct. He wanted to be around Adam, but he didn’t want to _talk_ to Adam. He wanted to hate Kavinsky; it was almost a prearranged ideal of hatred. Hate him, despise him, resent him—not _idolise_ him. He didn’t want _not_ to hate him. It was far too dangerous.

“Well, let’s go, then,” Gansey said, leading the way across the perfectly-manicured grass. Ronan suspected that each blade had been measured to the perfect length of such-and-such centimetres before it had been trimmed. “After classes are over, I was thinking we could take the Pig over to Nino’s for a while to finish homework. Ronan, that means you have to actually _do_ your homework.”

Ronan scoffed, but Adam looked hopeful. “Will Blue be there?”

“Most likely she will, seeing as she works there,” Gansey said. Something was different about his voice, and Adam’s, too. “Do you have work?”

“No,” Adam said, brow furrowed. They still liked to act as if Gansey hadn’t memorised Adam’s entire work schedule by heart. Although, come to think of it, Ronan had, too. “Blue probably does, though.”

Ronan was suddenly furious at them: Gansey’s persistent philosophy; Adam’s stupid crush on Blue. His fingers itched. He hadn’t been behind the wheel of a car in over a week. Everything was too bright, too colourful. He wanted to hit something.

 _You know what your problem is,_ Kavinsky had said. _You don’t know how to loosen up, man. Take it from me: you gotta know when to go and when to fucking stop._

How insanely ludicrous was it, that Ronan was considering any words that came out of Joseph Kavinsky’s mouth to be advice of any sort.

“I was thinking we could start exploring the forest beyond the lake,” Gansey was saying. “On the other side of Cabeswater. I know we were thinking that Glendower would be _in_ Cabeswater, but since I don’t have any new leads on that, I want to try looking in the vicinity.”

Gansey only accidentally slipped back into first-person mode, and Ronan knew he never meant to be so exclusive, but it still felt like a slap in the face. That wouldn’t have meant much, had it been coming from anyone else; Ronan had been slapped in the face enough times that he was used to it. But coming from Gansey, it felt like a knife to the gut.

“Why do you think we should look in other places?” asked Adam. “What else is there to find, other than Glendower?”

“Well,” said Gansey, warming up to the idea immediately, the way he always did when Adam had something to contribute, “it’s likely that there’ll be other artefacts in the surrounding area where Glendower was buried. Is buried, I mean. Should be buried. If Cabeswater and the ley line truly hold enough power that Glendower was taken all the way from Wales to get here, then it’s likely he was buried with as much pomp and ceremony as possible. Ergo, other artefacts.”

“Okay,” Adam said, clearly not in the mood to argue with this bit of Gansey logic.

“I’m so close to figuring this out, Adam. _We’re_ so close. We—I—can’t give up now. Are you with me?”

“I’m with you,” said Adam. “You know I am.”

They were inside Welch Hall, the main academic building, by then. The small sea of boys parted subconsciously for the newcomers and consciously when they saw it was Gansey. Ronan felt that same vindictive thrill that came with knowing you looked untouchable.

“Calc,” Gansey announced. “Come on.”

“We’re coming,” Adam said, amused.

Ronan didn’t see why any of it was funny.

As always, whispers and stares followed them though Welch Hall. That three-headed monster they were known as, Gansey-Lynch-Parrish, was well-known at Aglionby. Ronan narrowed his eyes and followed Gansey, suddenly furiously glad of his friendships. Kavinsky didn’t matter. _This_ did.

For a moment he didn’t care about anything else. None of it mattered, none of it could touch him. The only thing that was real was that moment: bright overhead lights, carpet crushed under their shoes, the rustles of fabric as the boys moved out of their way, the steady rhythm of his footsteps and heartbeat.

Someone Ronan didn’t know (although, really, that didn’t mean much) called out Gansey’s name, and the spell was broken. Gansey nodded to the other person, Adam huffed a laugh and said something Ronan couldn’t understand, and then it was back to normal, no matter how much Ronan wished the other version was what was normal.

Henry Cheng, one of the Aglionby boys Ronan didn’t _not like_ so much as _dislike,_ called out to Gansey and waved a hand. Gansey obligingly lifted his hand in response, and Adam gave him a look that Ronan couldn’t or didn’t want to interpret.

“Sometimes it’s annoying, how popular you are,” Ronan said, just so Gansey wouldn’t think he had been ignoring them completely, or that he had been spending too much time looking at Adam.

“I’m sure you could be popular if you didn’t act like such an asshole,” Gansey pointed out.

“I never said I couldn’t, asshole, I said it’s annoying how popular _you_ are—it’s not as if _I_ want to have people following my every fucking move.”

It was a low blow, a cruel cut at Gansey’s over-protectiveness; Ronan knew that some of that over-protectiveness, at least, was warranted. He still despised every second of it, but the comments of _where’s the leash, Lynch?_ and _call your dog, Dick!_ had ceased to cut so deeply.

“I don’t intend it,” Gansey said, perplexed—he was always perplexed, always confused; for someone so intelligent, he could be ridiculously stupid sometimes. “Is it a problem?”

 _Yes._ “Of course not, Dick.” Meaning _dick._

Adam rolled his eyes. “Guys. Class. Let’s go.”

 

The rest of them—Skov, Swan, Jiang—there was no reason to hate them; they didn’t even exist other than on the road. Ronan was tired of hating things that didn’t exist. He would give them dirty looks and rude hand gestures when he saw them, but without Kavinsky, they were just a pack of wolves without an alpha.

Prokopenko, Ronan did hate. He could never decide whether the source of this hatred was because Prokopenko was generally an asshole, or because Prokopenko was always in close proximity to Kavinsky.

And Kavinsky himself was—

Ronan had forgotten how many times he had been told he was supposed to hate Kavinsky.

It would have been easy to set it up: they were on opposing sides, after all; Ronan was _the good guy_ and Kavinsky was _the bad guy,_ it should have been that simple. That was how everyone at school saw them: enemies. That was how Gansey spoke of them: opposites. What Ronan didn’t tell anyone was that even two sides of a coin were bound together by the metal in between.

 _You and me,_ Kavinsky had said, his smirk thin-lipped and exclusionary, _we’re not really that different. We’re alike in more ways than you know, Lynch._

 _You don’t know a damn thing,_ Ronan had said. _About me, or anything._

Kavinsky had laughed. His laugh was the opposite of Adam’s, Ronan thought; Kavinsky took up too much space, and Adam did his best to occupy none. _You give yourself too much credit. I’m observant. So are you. What do you say to that?_

Ronan had done his best to imitate Kavinsky’s sneering laugh. He wasn’t observant, other than when he wanted to be, but it was never enough. And what was the value in hearing it from someone like Joseph Kavinsky, anyway? _Nothing._

Gansey had threatened to take the keys to the BMW, after the last time he had found out about Ronan’s street racing. “I don’t want to be overbearing. I don’t want to act like a dick,” he’d said, “but if this keeps happening, I’m going to have to do something.”

“You can’t _ground_ me,” Ronan had said, laughing although it was anything but funny. “I’m not your responsibility, it’s not your job to look after me like I’m a little kid or some shit like that. You’ve got nothing on me. And yeah, you’re being a dick.”

“Family name. Can’t help it,” Gansey had said. Joking either meant that he wasn’t that angry, or was completely furious. Ronan didn’t know which one was worse. “I’m serious, Ronan. I don’t want you getting kicked out of Aglionby, and I don’t want to be the one to get the call from the police saying I have to come pick you up. I’m not your father—I don’t want to be. But I’m your friend. And as your friend, I’m saying that if I have to take the keys to your car, I will.”

“I could just dream more,” Ronan had said. “It wouldn’t matter what you did.”

“ _Ronan._ ”

“But I won’t,” Ronan had admitted. He tugged his bracelets with his teeth. The leather had tasted stale and chewy, with a faint hint of gasoline. It was a stupid habit, but it was his: the same way Gansey touched his lower lip when he was focused or anxious, the same way Adam let his eyes flicker around like searchlights, the same was Blue crossed her legs at the ankles. Ronan was a creature of habit, no matter how bad those habits were. “I won’t, okay?”

“I’m holding you to that,” Gansey had said. He had torn a mint leaf in half and folded into his mouth.“Promise me. I can’t deal with this, Ronan. Promise me you’ll be safe.”

Ronan had looked into Gansey’s eyes and smiled. “Safe as life.”

But he still had the keys, and school was over, and Gansey was not his king.

He could do it. Take the keys and go, find Kavinsky, push the BMW until it shook under his touch like a live thing, feel that rush of adrenaline coursing under his skin. He could do it. He could. It would be so simple. Gansey would never know.

Or he would, and then the consequences would be worse, and Adam would look at him with that disappointed look that meant he was tired of Ronan’s fucking up, and Gansey would be a terrible thing to endure, and Ronan would feel like shit. _Again._

Ronan’s decision was made for him by Kavinsky himself. Kavinsky frequented the courtyards of Aglionby after school, for reasons unknown to Ronan only because he didn’t want to get into that crowd any more. Prokopenko was usually with him, tagging along like the tail of a comet. It struck Ronan as a particularly romanticised yet accurate way to think of Kavinsky, as a meteor hurtling through the sky, burning and slowly being chipped away to nothing.

After all, that was how Ronan himself felt.

Kavinsky was waiting, leaning against the wall. He was smoking, although cigarettes were not allowed on the Aglionby campus. It was probably more for show, anyway. “Lynch,” he said, almost affectionately, although that meant he was probably high. “Just the man I was looking for. Why won’t you text me back?”

Ronan sneered at him, an imitation of the look Kavinsky himself wore so often. It felt like appropriation.“What’s done is done. I don’t have any business with that shit.”

Kavinsky knocked his sunglasses a little further down his nose to look Ronan in the eye. It was a trick Ronan knew too, to make yourself look taller. “Harsh, man. Way to treat a friend.”

“We’re not friends.”

“Aw, don’t be like that. We’re bros. It’s just a prerequisite to hate each other. Look at you and Dick there: lovers and fighters.”

“Don’t bring Gansey into this,” Ronan snarled. “If you wanna do this, it’s between you and me. He has nothing to do with it. I don’t want him involved in this shit, you understand? Or I’m out for good.”

Kavinsky widened his eyes theatrically. “Blow off some steam, Lynch, damn. I’m not trying to get in between you and your boyfriend. And if I was, I wouldn’t go about it this way. Give me some more credit than that.”

Ronan sneered again and started to turn away, Gansey’s warnings ringing in his head. Kavinsky grabbed his arm, and Ronan almost flinched. He came closer to flinching than he had in a long time, but Kavinsky wasn’t about to know that. “Fuck off.”

“Oh, don’t be an asshole. You free tonight?”

“I’m not racing,” Ronan said, mind whirling. “Not any more.”

Kavinsky’s smile was hard and cruel. “Let me persuade you. I can get you back in the game.”

“I’m not doing it.”

“You’re the best fucking racer out of everyone. I can’t let that go to waste, man. Give it one try, okay? One night, and we’ll see if you’re back up to speed in the game, or if you want out. But I can guarantee that you’ll want in on it again.”

Ronan tried to cover up how his heart thumped and lurched at the touch of Kavinsky’s fingers on his arm, the thought of pressing down on the pedal and feeling the car respond to his movements, the idea of seeing the road stretched out, glittering and empty, in front of him. “Get the fuck away from me.”

“One night. I promise. You’ll be back in the game. On my honour.”

Ronan laughed, surprising himself. “You’re fucked up, man. And you have no honour.”

“Takes one to know one. See you tonight? You know you want to.”

Ronan considered it.

Gansey would hate him, he knew. But Gansey already should have hated him. Ronan despised how trusting Gansey was, how affectionate and caring even after Ronan had done his best to rip out Gansey’s heart and shatter his skin; after everything Ronan had done, intentional or not, Gansey still _cared._

It was terrible, and Ronan refused to admit how jealous he was of that ability to trust.

“Fine,” he said, finally. “I’ll do it. One night, then that’s it.”

“Oh, you’ll want back in.” Kavinsky’s smile was startling and terrifying. “See you at eleven, baby.”

 

It was, without a doubt, the worst idea Ronan had ever had in his life.

Which was saying something.

Gansey had driven him and Adam to Nino’s, met Blue, and now the three of them were sitting at a table drinking sweet tea. Gansey was surreptitiously watching Blue and pretending he wasn’t, Adam was staring down at the table avoiding eye contact, and Ronan was glaring at the wall wanting to hit something.

Blue breezed over, in far too happy of a mood to gain any of Ronan’s sympathy. “Hey, guys. Are you going to order any food, or just sit here glowering and Glendowering?”

Gansey looked delighted, with both Blue’s appearance and her Glendower pun, and handed her a mint leaf from his pocket in reward. “Jane! How about pizza? The way we like it.”

“Gansey, only _you_ like it that way.”

“But Adam, you said you liked the avocados before—”

Ronan looked up at him. “What are you, six? Fucking grow a pair. No one likes your shitty food.”

Blue raised one pointy eyebrow. “What happened to Grumpy over here?”

“All right, you’re not getting a tip from me, Sargent.”

“He’s tired,” Gansey said, “or hungry, or something. We’re fine. Pizza would be nice. Choose however you want it, then have some if you want. Unless it’s against the rules to eat while you’re working.”

It wasn’t difficult to realise that Gansey had only said that to gain favour from Blue, but it worked. Blue smiled and poked his cheek affectionately. “Okay, rich boy. I’ll be right back.” She sauntered off towards the kitchen, still grinning.

Ronan had dreamt about Kavinsky the night before. In the dream Ronan had been walking through Cabeswater, searching for Adam. That was how his dreams were, these days, always searching, hungry for answers. Kavinsky had been leaning against one of the trees as if he had owned the place, grinning at Ronan like a jackal. “Found you,” he’d said. “Told you I would.”

The thing about it, though, was that Ronan hadn’t known whether or not Kavinsky was a part of his dream, something Ronan had made up from his own head, or was in a separate dream that had grabbed onto Ronan’s dream and ripped a tear in it, forcing his way through the barrier.

Ronan suspected it didn’t matter.

“Ronan,” Adam said softly. He leaned forwards and grabbed Ronan’s wrist; Ronan tried to jerk his hand away, but Adam held on. Adam lowered his voice even more so that Gansey couldn’t overhear—Gansey was still staring after Blue, in any case. “Please tell me you’re okay.”

“And how,” Ronan said, “is it any of your fucking business?”

It struck him, then, how very like Kavinsky he sounded.

“I guess none,” Adam said uncertainly, his accent slipping out and betraying his birth. “I just, I don’t want you to do anything stupid.”

“Bit too late for that.”

“I know,” Adam said. He was still holding onto Ronan’s wrist. His thumb tangled with the strips of leather and brushed over Ronan’s pulse. “But I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Ronan looked at him and almost reconsidered.

Blue came back with pizza. “Sorry, Gansey, we’re out of avocados.”

“Oh, what a shame. The service here is truly terrible,” Gansey said, and Blue laughed. When Gansey said things like that, it was a joke. When Ronan did, it was mockery. Ronan hated everything.

“We match the service to the customers,” Blue said promptly. “If they’re awful, then so are we.”

“We must be pretty horrible, then.”

“Only some of you,” Blue amended. “Only some of the time.”

Ronan shoved Adam’s hands away from his wrists without looking at him, and put his own hands in his lap, where they wouldn’t be tempted to do anything they shouldn’t do.

 

It was surprisingly easy to betray Gansey.

Ronan had hardly had to think about it. It became a checklist of sins in his mind: Wait until Gansey was on the phone with Blue. Occupy Chainsaw so that she wouldn’t be a giveaway. Slip the keys into his pocket. Avoid the creaking seventh stair. Start the BMW. Escape into the embrace of darkness.

What guilt Ronan couldn’t pummel away into imaginary little boxes inside his head, he rationalised. Technically it wasn’t a street race if it was just him and Kavinsky. There would be no one on the roads at that time of night anyway. It was only one last time.

 _You promised,_ Gansey whispered. _You don’t go back on your word._

Ronan turned on the radio to drown out Gansey’s voice in his head, but that reminded him of Adam, so he shoved his palm against the dash until the radio turned off again.

He didn’t want to think about Adam; Adam had no place here.

Adam was cut from a very different cloth than Kavinsky, and Ronan often felt as if it were a different part of him which was drawn to Adam, a kinder, less abrasive persona. He had hated Adam, when he had first met him. How the tables had turned; how the positions had been reversed. The worst of it all was that Ronan fully comprehended the rationality of the idea that Adam would have a myriad of valid reasons to despise him.

Perhaps that was why Kavinsky was so enthralling—he was despicable, horrible, malevolent, and whatever other unpleasant adjectives with which Gansey had branded him. But he, at least, could never look down on Ronan the way Gansey or Adam did. To look down on Ronan, Kavinsky would have needed to gain several more inches and lose several unpleasant traits.

Ronan didn’t see that happening any time soon.

He drove to the place where Kavinsky usually met him. Of course, Ronan had no way of knowing where Kavinsky would be, but this intersection was far enough from Monmouth that he didn’t have to feel that guilty and close enough to Aglionby that he could resent the school even more. It was his favourite spot for street racing, and Kavinsky knew it. There was no way he wouldn’t show up.

Kavinsky was late.

Ronan had expected that much, but the knowledge didn’t do a damn thing to make him feel any better, or to quell his nervous energy. The street was black and devoid of any traffic, the kind of oppressive dark that dug its hooks into his skin and refused to let him go. There was no breeze; the air was heavy, stilled, waiting.

The seconds ticked by. Ronan measured the time he was losing by the neon-green fluorescence of the numbers on the dashboard clock. Each passing second was another second longer that it would take him to get back to Monmouth, another second longer during which Gansey could wake up and realise Ronan’s absence, another second longer that Ronan spent shivering in the driver’s seat with every muscle tensed, waiting.

It would not be unlike Kavinsky, not to show up. It was just—Ronan hadn’t thought he would be able to pass up the opportunity one more time, after all the set-up and offers and requests.

It was just, he had thought Kavinsky would be there, the way he’d said he would be.

“God _damn_ it, K,” Ronan hissed, curling and uncurling his icy fingers around the steering wheel. It was late spring, but the nights were still tipped with that frosty chill that winter left as a parting gift. Ronan hated it; he despised feeling uncomfortable, and everything about the situation seemed to demand a different climate and the presence of Kavinsky’s Mitsubishi.

He would give it another five minutes, and then Ronan would be done with expectant patience; he would drive back to Monmouth and deal with Kavinsky at school the next day and—

The low, growling thunder of an engine cut into his thoughts, and Ronan’s heart surged. Muscle memory. He eased the BMW out onto the road again, heartbeat pounding a wild rhythm in his chest. The lurid white of the Mitsubishi was unmistakable in the rearview mirror.

Kavinsky had his windows rolled down despite the chill, and he gave Ronan a wicked grin and middle finger simultaneously. “Hope you weren’t waiting long, sweetie.”

“You know,” Ronan replied, letting the BMW drift up so that it was nose to nose with the Mitsubishi, “I think I like you better when you’re not talking.”

“Hey, I can work with that. So are we gonna do this or what,” Kavinsky said. There was a cigarette dangling from his left hand; Ronan could see the tip glowing the same red as the light above. He seemed impervious to the cold; it couldn’t touch him. Nothing could. “I get one shot, and you’re either in or you get your motherfucking ass back to your juvenile aristocrat cocksucker of a boyfriend and we call it quits.”

“Definitely better,” Ronan said, “when you’re not talking.”

“Hey, I do what I can.”

The light was green; neither car moved. Ronan could feel the BMW straining against the brake, eager to shoot forwards. He could taste the pleasure of winning on his tongue, success waiting to happen, smell the smoke from Kavinsky’s cigarette and feel the muted bass of his music. He almost couldn’t breathe for the rush of adrenaline.

God, but he had missed this.

He _had_ missed this, and it was clear that Kavinsky knew it; Ronan could see the grin on his face shift from obliging to triumphant. It stabbed into his skin. “Well, Lynch. You want to go, let’s fucking _go._ ”

Yellow. Ronan’s entire body was taut with anticipation. His fingers tightened in their respecting positions. Steering wheel, gearshift. Foot on the pedal. Waiting.

Kavinsky looked over one last time. “You know man, you think you’re so high and mighty with your fucking rich kid shit. I’ll get to you yet, see if I don’t.”

Ronan ignored him.

The light turned green.

Nothing else mattered.

 

There were different types of dreaming, Ronan thought. Kavinsky dreamt practical, logical things; Ronan dreamt impossible, inconsiderate things. Ronan dreamt feathered collections of beaks, implausibly lovable brothers, masks of skin that chewed away the flesh all the way down to the polished bone. Kavinsky dreamt forgeries: copies of Mitsubishis, copies of fake IDs, copies of stolen fireworks and surreptitious drugs and purloined alcohol. If Ronan was a creator, Kavinsky was a forger: an expert in his craft.

Ronan was unfairly envious. He felt as though his magics were not his, not in the way thievery belonged to Kavinsky or Glendower belonged to Gansey or Cabeswater belonged to Adam. Ronan was a dreamer terrified of dreaming. His dreams did not belong to anyone.

And he could not always control them. What he brought back was rarely what he intended to bring. Sometimes Ronan was able to run from the night horrors, but more often they loped and rustled after him, snaring his skin in their claws and beaks, and tore his flesh to bloodied ribbons, or Adam’s, or Gansey’s, or Matthew’s. Sometimes they made Ronan do it himself. Those were his worst dreams.

Ronan wondered if Kavinsky ever brought back night horrors, ever woke up with birdlike monsters chasing him from dream to reality. He didn’t think so. Something told Ronan that even the night horrors were afraid of Kavinsky.

When monsters were afraid of other monsters, Ronan mused, that was how you knew the world had really gone to shit.

Perhaps it was this that drove him to disobey Gansey for the second time.

“I’ve been picking up unusually high readings all around the area,” Gansey said. It was afternoon, and they were walking through the halls, Gansey-Lynch-Parrish, three boys against an army. “I thought we might take the good equipment out there later to clarify.”

“Gansey, _all_ your equipment is good.”

“The better equipment, then.”

Gansey had given him five rules: Do not get into fights that didn’t matter. Make at least a solid B-average at Aglionby. Keep the drinking and street racing to a minimum. Be at least something like a normal human being. And stay away from Joseph Kavinsky.

Ronan was very good at failing to follow those rules.

“You’ve been using the EMF reader, right? Doesn’t it pick up on energy waves? Because if it does, then wouldn’t that mean it could help us to find the line—and to actually keep it properly aligned?”

“I suppose,” Gansey said dubiously. “It does tend to confuse the EMF reader quite a lot though, the line does. I don’t know how accurate its perception would be. We would likely know when there was _something,_ but the question would be _what_ it was.”

_Stay away from Joseph Kavinsky._

It would be like trying to evade his own shadow at a game it had invented for itself.

Ronan was sick of playing Kavinsky’s games.

“Oh,” Adam said, disappointed. Ronan wanted to eradicate that regret from his voice. “So we could still use it when we’re looking for other, I don’t know, artefacts, right? It would still work for that?”

They reached the library, or at least the room which lead to the library in _that_ building—there were several, at least one for each building proper—and were forced to slow. This was not because of the crowd’s unwillingness to part; the hallway was crammed and choked with boys in matching sweaters and neatly-pressed khakis. Ronan spotted Henry Cheng, ever loyal to his cause, and Tad Carruthers, ever loyal to Henry Cheng. There was some sort of demonstration happening. Ronan didn’t care. It was only a distraction.

“Probably,” Gansey told Adam, ignoring the blockage and Ronan both. Ronan seethed and considered forcing his way through the crowd, Henry Cheng especially. “It’s still exceptional at picking up the slightest traces of supernatural activity. I blame it for dragging me here in the first place. Is there a problem?”

This last was directed towards a boy who started awkwardly at Gansey’s addressing of him. “N-no, Cheng just—some petition he wants us to sign, another—another—one of his half-assed liberation ideas, you know, that BS.”

“His ideas,” Gansey said, “would be better if someone listened to him. Can we get through?”

“Y-yes,” the boy stammered. “Yes, of course.” He turned to a small clump of other boys and began shooing them out of the way with hasty, flapping hand gestures that reminded Ronan of a bird with both of its wings broken.

“Dick! Just the man I was hoping to see.”

“Henry,” Gansey said, managing to make his tone sound pleasant. Or maybe it really was pleasant. With Gansey, you could rarely tell. “What’s going on here?”

Adam looked over at Ronan and rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner. His mouth was quirked up into a half-smile, an expression that did unfair things to a place somewhere in the vicinity of Ronan’s stomach.

Ronan looked away; his gaze tore over the assembled boys and snagged on the short, slouching shadow leaning casually against the glass door behind Henry Cheng. Joseph Kavinsky was standing outside the library.

Ronan didn’t know if he’d always been there, or if he’d just arrived, but now that he’d noticed Kavinsky, he couldn’t un-notice him. It was knowing that there was a snake curled in the corner and wondering when it would sink its fangs into your flesh.

Kavinsky grinned rakishly at Ronan, a far cry from Adam’s crooked half-smile. He touched two fingers to his temple in a mocking salute, jerked his head in the direction of the library, and disappeared behind the swinging pane of glass.

Ronan started towards the door, blood pounding in his ears.

A hand attached itself to his arm. Gansey. “Ronan, where _are_ you going.”

“Let fucking go. I’m just going to be a minute.” He shrugged off Gansey’s cautious fingers and again headed for the faint shimmer of his reflection in the library’s glass door.

“What are you doing?”

“I have unfinished business.”

“In the _library_? You?”

Ronan stopped. He whirled to face Gansey, all fangs and thorns and blood pulsing beneath his skin. “Let’s just say I have to return a little something that’s a bit overdue.”

“Ronan—”

The library door closed behind him in a satisfying ripple of reflective glass, and Ronan allowed himself one breath of quiet before he sealed the fracture lines in his armour in preparation.

Kavinsky was lounging against one of the book shelves, slouched so that he was even shorted. Ronan suspected it was to make his height look intentional. Everything about Kavinsky was done on purpose. He was a monster designed to find the cracks in Ronan’s armour and crawl under them.

Uncurling himself from the book shelf, Kavinsky surveyed Ronan with dissolute and intentional disinterest. He knocked his white sunglasses over his eyes so that Ronan could only see his own reflection, not Kavinsky’s, and said, “Well. Hello again, sweetie.”

“Are you a sore loser?” Ronan demanded, his hands automatically forming fists. “Do you want to say you want another fucking go? Is this some sort of game to you, K? This isn’t me. This isn’t who I am any more.”

“Dick Gansey,” Kavinsky said, deliberately drawing out the words, “is the worst thing to ever happen to you, man.”

“Look,” Ronan said, “there are rules. Leave Gansey _out_ of this.” And Adam, but he didn’t want to mention Adam and give Kavinsky another weapon to use against him.

Kavinsky gave a showy, sweeping bow. “Personal life’s a no-fly zone, then. I’ll keep it in mind.”

“I don’t do this shit to you,” Ronan said, gesturing at nothing. “I don’t wade into your business and fuck around. I’m not going to ask about your family or whatever. I’m not like that. And I don’t want you talking about Gansey that way.”

“Keeping it just you and me.” Kavinsky tipped his sunglasses further down his nose, despite the poor lighting. “I can work with that.”

Ronan’s pulse skittered wildly.

He said, “Just so we’re clear, I’m done.”

For a moment Kavinsky’s expression was one of hurt, betrayal, disbelief. Then it moved swiftly back to the emotionless arrogance. “Breaking up with me already? Harsh. I’m sure we can work it out with a little talk. Isn’t that how Dick does it?”

Ronan took the two steps necessary and shoved Kavinsky back against the wall. He grabbed a fistful of Kavinsky’s shirt. “I _said_ don’t fucking _talk_ like that. I’m done. I’m done with racing. I’m not gonna do it any more. I won’t do _this_ any more. Find some other fucker to take my spot.”

Kavinsky put his hand over Ronan’s and pushed it away. He straightened his shirt and adjusted his white sunglasses. They were the pair Ronan had dreamt for him. “There isn’t anybody else.”

“Guess you’re fucked, then.”

“Fuck this,” Kavinsky said. He took a step away, then back again. “ _Fuck_ this.”

Ronan hesitated.

“You don’t have to do this,” Kavinsky said. “ _Fuck,_ Lynch. Come on.”

“No,” Ronan said. “I really do.” If he didn’t now, he never would.

It had been him and Kavinsky for so long. How did you train something rooted so deep out of you without ripping it out by force?

“This is shit,” Kavinsky said. He sounded as if he were saying it to himself, instead of to Ronan. “I— _shit._ You don’t _get_ it, do you? You and me, we’re the only ones left.”

“There’s an entire world out there, K.”

“Not like us.” Kavinsky pressed his knuckles to his temples. “You _know_ not like us.”

“No,” Ronan agreed. He didn’t know how to say that it wasn’t a bad thing, to be different. There was really no good and bad about it at all. “So it’s shit. What are you going to do about it?”

Kavinsky was Kavinsky again, full of danger and drugs and explosions and fear. “What I always do. Blow shit up. Get high. Why do you give a fuck about what I do, Lynch?”

“Maybe I don’t,” Ronan said. “So what?”

Kavinsky’s sneer was practised; Ronan had seen it a thousand times in the glow of the street lights or the burn of the dashboard illuminescence. “Well, no one gives a fuck about you either, so it doesn’t matter.”

Ronan hesitated for a moment, then he slammed his fist neatly into Kavinsky’s face, sending him crashing back in to the desk and scattering office supplies and returned books on to the floor.

That was three of Gansey’s rules broken already: Do not get into fights that didn’t matter. Be at least something like a normal human being. And stay away from Joseph Kavinsky.

Or really only two; this _mattered._

Kavinsky pulled himself back up and spat blood onto the beige carpet at Ronan’s feet. It left a bright-red smear that Ronan didn’t want to have to explain to inquisitive adults later. Kavinsky wiped his mouth with his hand, and his fingers came away stained with scarlet.

Ronan considered apologising, but he didn’t know what for.

Kavinsky said, “Get the fuck away from me, Lynch.”

Ronan did.

 

He didn’t have to be owned by anyone, by Gansey or Adam or Declan or even Kavinsky. Trading one type of chains for another wasn’t better, it was just a different kind of punishment.

Ronan was done with penance.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](spacestationtrustfund.tumblr.com).


End file.
